


Just Look Over Your Shoulder

by HannahJane



Series: Can't No Preacher Man Save My Soul [4]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study?, Gen, Kid Fic, Pre-series Fic, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahJane/pseuds/HannahJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once several years ago, Charlie Matheson met the Angel of Death...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Look Over Your Shoulder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [virgobeauty30](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=virgobeauty30).



> Title taken from "You'll Be In My Heart" by Phil Collins.

** Four years after the Blackout **

 

The militia comes early, a steady stream of angry looking men in uniforms who carry swords bigger than she is, wagons loaded with blankets and boxes and firewood. Charlie is seven and doesn’t completely understand, but she knows the way her father draws her closer, the protective arm that he loops around her shoulders. He did that before in the forest when the raiders were close and when the bear snuffled through their camp while they hid nearby. She knows that means her father is scared.

 

Charlie doesn’t like it when her father is scared.

 

There’s a woman leading the soldiers and Charlie thinks she’s pretty, too pretty to be in the militia. She dresses like one of the cowboys in Aaron's books with a big hat and a bandana tied around her neck. The militia is bad, her father says so, but this woman is pretty, sitting on a big black horse, prettier even than Rosie Michaels who everyone says is the prettiest girl in town.

 

Charlie doesn’t understand how someone so pretty can be bad.

 

“We’re a little early, ladies and gentlemen,” the woman speaks and even her voice is pretty. Charlie finds herself leaning against her father’s grip, trying to get closer. The voice is familiar, comforting. “We don’t expect you to be ready. We’ll make camp on the outskirts of town, let you get everything settled. Don’t rush on our account; I could use a rest.” No one says anything, everyone too busy watching the soldiers. With a nod, the woman turns her horse and leads the militia towards the edge of town by the forest. Charlie follows that big black horse with her eyes until it’s blocked from her view by the houses rising around them.

 

Her father leads her back to their house, closes the door behind them with a heavy sigh. Maggie comes out of the kitchen, Danny following close behind, one hand clutching her shirt. Charlie gets mad when she sees Danny with Maggie. Her mommy should be the one who kisses Danny’s knee when he gets a boo-boo and helps him when he has an asthma attack, but her mommy isn’t here anymore.

 

“Ben?” Maggie sounds scared like her father. Maggie’s here and Charlie’s mother isn’t.

 

“It’ll be fine, Maggie,” he says, nudges Charlie towards the washbasin in the corner. “They’re just early for collection. Captain Charmer’s leading them; wash your hands for dinner, Charlie.” She knows that tone in her father’s voice and obeys, Danny toddling behind her. She can’t watch as her father pulls Maggie into his arms, rests his chin on top of her head.

 

That should be her mommy.

 

* * *

 

If her father catches her, she’s going to be in trouble for the rest of her life. It’s that knowledge that makes Charlie move silently down the stairs, creeping towards the front door, her winter jacket pulled tight around her body. No one stops her, so she goes, out the door, down the porch and into the quiet street.

 

If the militia catches her, she’s going to be arrested. It’s that knowledge that makes her move carefully through the weeds, trying to avoid the leaves and twigs as she creeps closer to the circle of tents, drawn to the light and laughter. There’s a gap between two of the tents, just enough that she can see into the inner circle.

 

The militiamen are all sitting around the fire, some eating, others wiping their swords and guns with dirty rags. There is a lot of smiling and laughing and here they don’t seem as scary as they did earlier. Charlie can’t see the pretty woman, looks for the big hat, craning her neck this way and that. She can’t hear that musical voice either, the voice that she realized reminds her of her mommy. She’s so focused on finding the woman that she doesn’t hear the footsteps behind her until a rough hand grabs her by the arm, pulls her away.

 

“What do we have here?” strong arms that feel too heavy encircle her; lift her over a shoulder that digs sharp into her tummy. Charlie screams, kicks and beats her fists against the man’s back as he carries her out of the darkness and into the circle of firelight. She’s abruptly dumped on the ground by the flames, scraping her knee on ground, tears flooding her eyes at the sharp pain.

 

“Little spy,” someone says and there’s a rumble of male voices that makes Charlie cry harder, sobs welling in her chest. Blood oozes down her knee, hot and sticky and all Charlie can do is cry because she’s so scared.

 

“Barnett, what the hell are you doing?” a woman’s voice breaks the circle of men and Charlie looks up through the haze of her tears to see the pretty woman there with her hands on her hips, scowling at the men around her. Her hat is gone and her black hair spills over her shoulders, twisting into the beautiful curlicues that Charlie’s always wanted. Charlie hiccups, feeling her bottom lip quiver. She’s going to get arrested now and she’ll never see Danny or her father or even Maggie ever again.  The militia does bad things to little girls, that’s what Rosie Michaels says. The thought brings a fresh wave of tears, her breathe hitching as she sobs.

 

“Oh shhh, baby girl,” suddenly Charlie’s being lifted into a pair of soft arms, arms that cradle and hold her, not rough like the man who  picked her up before. Instinct curls her tighter into the arms, pressing her damp face into the space of the woman’s neck, clutching the front of her shirt. Maggie tried to hold her like this once a long time ago and Charlie had yelled at her, told her that she wasn’t her mommy. She doesn’t do that now, just sucks in a gasping breathe, clings.

 

“Are you all done tormenting the little girl who was probably just curious?” the woman asks and she sounds like Aaron when someone in school plays a prank on him. Charlie keeps her face tight against the woman’s neck, breathing in a scent that almost reminds her of her mother, warm and gentle. Someone mumbles ‘sorry’ and then Charlie is being carried away, safe in the woman’s embrace, away from the circle of light and the men who frightened her.

 

“Jeremy, get your first aid kit?” Charlie finally looks up when she feels something brush across her head, finds herself in one of the tents, a big one with a bed and two chairs and a table. The woman sets Charlie in one of those chairs and steps back, giving Charlie a look that she’s very familiar with. Her daddy gets that look a lot too when he's disappointed, but not angry. That's a different look.

 

“I’m sorry,” Charlie says automatically, ducking her head and sniffling. She chances looking up through her hair and finds the pretty woman shaking her head, smiling a little. She’s even prettier when she smiles and Charlie tells her so.

 

“She _is_ prettier when she smiles,” Charlie gasps at the voice, turns to see a man in the tent flap, broad-shouldered and blonde. He reminds her a little bit of Greg, their neighbor, the one that daddy says used to be a teacher. The pretty woman kneels down in front of Charlie.

 

“Suck-ups, the both of you,” she says, but she’s still smiling and Charlie feels the corners of her own mouth turn up in response. The man comes closer, holds out a box and a bowl of water before sitting on the edge of the bed. Charlie watches him watch the pretty woman.

 

“Are you her boyfriend?” she asks because Tommy Burrel smiles at Rosie Michaels like that and they’re boyfriend and girlfriend. The pretty woman looks up, her eyes warm and her smile crinkling the corner of her eyes.

 

“Jeremy is my best friend.” She carefully rolls up the leg of Charlie’s pants, exposing the cut on her knee. “My name’s Logan. What’s yours?”

 

“I’m Charlie,” she says, wincing when Logan dabs at the blood. “I’m seven.”

 

“Well, she's got me beat in the Underage Fiasco Olympics. Worst thing I did when I was seven was try and eat my bodyweight in Snickers.” Jeremy says, leaning back on the bed. When he smiles he looks even more like Greg when he dances with his wife at the town parties. Charlie is allowed to stay up an hour past her bedtime when they have a party, but she usually ends up falling asleep early. She loves dancing with her daddy at the party.

 

“When I was seven,” Logan says, wiping away blood and so that Charlie can see the little cut on her knee. “I had a foster sister who was special needs and I got expelled for beating up a kid who called her a retard.” Charlie doesn’t understand all the words, but she understands beating up someone who picks on her sibling.

 

“My brother Danny has asthma and sometimes the other kids make fun of him because he can’t play with us.” Charlie says, watching Logan carefully smear something across the scrape before taping a piece of white gauze over it.

 

“Well, you’re a good sister.” The woman smiles up at her before she leans down and presses a quick kiss to the bandage. Charlie wonders if she’s a mommy too because her knee suddenly feels better. Logan washes her hands in the bowl of water after she tugs Charlie’s pant leg back down, careful not to mess up the bandage.

 

“You’re good at that.” Charlie says, looking at her knee, turning her leg side to side. Maggie can fix the tear in her pants easily. “Do you have kids?” she asks, looking up at Logan in curiosity. Logan's smile goes away and suddenly she stands, turns away from Charlie. Charlie isn't sure, but she thinks Logan might be crying. Jeremy frowns on the bed, but he doesn’t move, just watches her. The thought of Logan crying makes Charlie unbearably sad and she stands, wrapping her arms around Logan’s legs, hugging her. After a minute, a hand settles on Charlie’s hair, stroking softly, combing through the strands. Maggie tries to be like her mommy, but it’s not the same because the smell is different and the voice is different and she just can’t be.

 

Logan doesn’t feel like her mommy either, but she feels closer than Maggie.

 

“Don’t be sad,” Charlie says against Logan’s leg, squeezes tightly. “It’s okay.” They stay like that for a long time, that hand stroking her hair until Charlie’s eyes start to droop and she can’t fight the yawns anymore, leaning more heavily against Logan. Logan bends and picks her up again, setting her on her hip the way her mommy used to, rocking a little bit when she moves.

 

“I miss my mommy,” Charlie whispers, sleep still tugging at her eyes. “But you’re pretty like her so I don’t miss her so much right now.” She yawns and curls closer to Logan, the steady sound of Logan’s heartbeat lulling her to sleep, warm and familiar like her mommy.

 

**

 

Of all the things Ben Matheson expects to be awakened by, General Monroe’s Angel of Death standing on the front porch of his home with his sleeping daughter cradled in her arms doesn't even make the list. He stands there for a moment, drop-jawed at the sight of Charlie curled against Captain Logan Charmer’s chest, one little hand holding tight to the black bandana around the woman’s neck.

 

“Ben Gordon?” the sound of the alias that he’s been using since his baby brother went all Lord of the Flies with Bass Monroe breaks him out of his trance and he nods, one hand gripping the doorknob tightly. Charmer smiles tightly, tips her chin down at Charlie.

 

“I think she got curious. We found her in our camp.” He still hasn’t moved to take Charlie, isn’t sure if he can. Charmer appears to be alone and in her trousers, shirt and vest, he can’t see any visible weaponry. It doesn’t mean she’s not deadly, but it certainly lets him breathe a little easier.

 

Charmer makes the decision about Charlie for him, stepping forward and holding out his sleeping daughter, her head lolling with the sleep of the truly innocent. Ben gathers her warm body against his chest, breathes in the familiar scent of Charlie and the tension in his chest loosens just a little. The little girl stirs in his arms, one small hand grasping for the collar of his shirt before she settles again with a soft noise.

 

Charmer nods, suddenly looking uncomfortable and for the first time, Ben is struck by how young this already mythic figure is. She can’t be more than twenty, war and violence not yet having carved their permanent lines into her skin. It’s hard to imagine this porcelain-skinned girl having anything to do with the Militia, but he’s heard the stories in all their gory and violent variations: the stories that already have legend status of the midnight-haired woman who follows General’s Monroe and Matheson into battle like one of Odin’s Valkyries. Ben can’t ignore the stories, the horrific things that the Monroe Republic has done in the name of rebuilding a nation in their own image. As if sensing his distaste for her employment, her jaw tightens and she takes a step back, her boots thumping hollowly on the porch. It’s miniscule, there for a second and then gone, but he almost thinks she’s hurt by his reaction.

 

Ben wonders briefly if the stories about Miles and her are true, tries to imagine Miles taking on the fiery tempered captain. He wouldn’t be surprised if the stories about her and Bass are true, Bass’s reputation from before the Blackout preceding him even now. A tree bough creaks from down the unfinished subdivision and she turns to look, the moonlight gleaming for the briefest moment against a ragged scar along her collarbone, the shirt pulling open with the movement of her neck. Satisfied nothing is amiss, Charmer turns back.

 

“Oh,” Charmer cocks her head, hair spilling over one shoulder. God, she’s just a kid herself, Ben thinks. “Charlie fell and scraped her knee. I cleaned it up, put a bandage over it.” It’s at odds, the gentle expression on her face as she looks at Charlie and the terrifying stories playing in the back of Ben’s mind. Her hand twitches at her side like she wants to reach out to Charlie again, but her arm never moves. When Ben doesn’t answer, she nods again, albeit stiffly, spins on her heel and walks away. He lets her get almost down the porch steps before the words form at the tip of his tongue.

 

“Thank you,” Ben blurts out suddenly. Charmer stops, but doesn’t turn. A soft breeze ruffles her wild mass of curls, sending them dancing. In silhouette, he can see where the nickname comes from. She looks foreboding, lethal and if he hadn’t just seen her cradling his seven year old daughter with the tenderness of a mother, he would have slammed the door and retreated into his bedroom until sunrise.

 

“Her mother’s dead?” Charmer asks softly, something almost broken in her voice even as she strives for nonchalance. Her shoulders gives it away, tensed up under her ears.

 

“Raiders,” Ben swallows hard, remembering his last view of Rachel, her head held high as she walked away. Charmer nods, still not turning around. They stay like that, frozen for a moment until the soft tug of a hand on Ben’s pants draws his attention.

 

“Daddy?” Ben looks down at Danny, soft and sleepy next to him, one hand pressed to his eyes. “Daddy? Who’s that?” the little boy asks again, confused. Charmer doesn’t turn around, but a shudder runs through her, sharp and painful to watch. The stories aren’t all true, Ben thinks, the stories about this girl thrust into the spotlight created by two men who speak only with violence and bloodshed. He can see the curve of her shoulder, like she wants to turn and look, but the moment passes, he can see it in the muscles of her neck, the way they straighten, but never relax.

 

“Good night, Mr. Gordon,” the Angel of Death says and walks away, disappearing into the night as silently as her namesake.

 

No one quite knows what to think the next morning when the militia rides out without taking their annual taxes.


End file.
